by Steven James
Normally, I could hold my own in a fight, but this guy was better than I was and I wasn’t going to be able to keep him at bay for long.
Get some distance. Shoot him if you need to.
I head-butted him, slamming my forehead brutally against his nose.
It took him by surprise and he staggered back two paces. Before he could come at me again, I whipped out my gun and leveled it at his chest.
“Federal agent. Drop the knife.”
Immediately, he stopped. He stood his ground but didn’t come at me. “You’re a federal agent?”
“FBI. Now get rid of the knife or I will put you down.”
He took a step backward and tossed the blade over the railing of the balcony. I just hoped it wouldn’t hit anyone on the sidewalk below us.
“Hands up,” I said. “Get on your knees.”
He didn’t comply. “Do you have the file?”
“What?”
“You said you’re with the Bureau. Did you find it? Do you have the file?”
I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of trying to cuff this guy by myself. I had a feeling that he would be able to get my gun from me and overpower me before I could stop him even if he was lying facedown when I approached him. But now that he’d gotten rid of his knife, I wasn’t about to shoot him either.
Jodie was on her way. Once she got here we could take him down. Until then we were in a bit of a standoff.
“What file?” I asked.
“Aurora’s birthday.”
I was aware that my sleeve was soaked with blood from my injured arm, but I didn’t feel any pain—adrenaline will do that to you.
But the adrenaline would go away.
The pain would come.
He didn’t kneel, didn’t look afraid, and I didn’t know if he had another weapon. Seemed likely to me that he would be packing, though.
Keeping my gun on him, I tugged out my phone, speed-dialed Jodie, and told her to call NYPD for backup and to get up here ASAP. Then I slid my phone into my pocket. “If you make a move, if you come at me, I’m going to put you down.”
“I understand.” Then, “It wasn’t on the computer or the phone.”
“What wasn’t?”
“The file.”
“Aurora’s birthday.”
“Yes.”
“Were you here last night?” I asked. “Did you kill Jamaal Stewart?”
“They won’t let this happen.” He eased back half a step.
“Stay where you are. Who? Who won’t let this happen?”
He took another step. He was at the railing.
“Do not move!”
“They know things. They can find out things. It’ll never stop.”
He glanced down at the street, then looked in my direction again.
“Don’t even think about it,” I said.
There are people down there.
He’s not the only one in danger here. They are too.
“You can’t stop me,” he said.
“I’ll do whatever’s necessary to protect those people down there. Now get on your knees.”
Slowly, he turned away from me, perhaps guessing that I wasn’t going to shoot him in the back.
You can’t let him jump, Pat.
“Step away from the railing!”
Thoughts raced through my mind, thoughts of the people outside the club twelve stories below us, of what might happen if this man did throw himself over the edge.
I shouted again for him to stop, but he just lifted one leg to the railing to climb over it.
I considered his state of mind, the danger he posed to those people—
He tossed the knife. He might not be armed.
You can’t kill him.
But he’s posing an immediate threat to innocent life.
I stared down the barrel.
Made my decision.
Avoid the femur.
Fired.
The leg that was supporting his weight buckled and he collapsed onto the balcony.
“Do not move.” I took a step forward.
“You’re not sending me to prison.” In obvious pain, he grimaced as he pushed himself to his feet. “I’m not going to prison. I’m dead already.”
“We can protect you.”
He scoffed. “Like you protected Ted?”
I had no idea who he was talking about. “That wasn’t our fault.” I was making this up as I went along. “We’re trying to get to the bottom of that. You can help us. Now just—”
Jodie called my name from the other room.
“Out here!” I hollered.
“You have no idea how far this goes,” he said to me, “what they’re going to do if . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Tell me.”
But instead of replying, he made the sign of the cross in front of his chest and then, in one swift and desperate motion, grabbed the railing and heaved himself over it and disappeared from sight.
I rushed forward and got there while he was still in the air on his way down.
He didn’t cry out. He didn’t scream. He just fell silently toward the sidewalk, where he collided with the ground within a meter of one of the women waiting outside the club.
The sound of impact followed, rising through the night, a thick, sickening thud.
Then the screams of the people in front of the club began.
And they didn’t stop.
3
“Jodie, I’m heading down.” I was back in the bedroom and she had turned on the light. “I want you to stay up here, make sure no one else comes in, and get the CSU over here.”
“First of all.” She indicated my bloody sleeve. “Are you okay?” Though her father was Caucasian, her mother was Persian and Jodie shared her dark hair and rich-toned skin. Small-framed but tough. I’d seen her take down guys my size.
“It’s fine.” Using my left sock, I wrapped the wound and tied it off to create a rudimentary dressing to quiet the bleeding. “Listen, the TV was off when the officers arrived. The chair was angled toward it, the DVD remote next to it.”
“So, he was watching TV,” she surmised.
“But the remote for that was out of reach.”
She caught on. “Who turned off the television?”
“Right.” We walked into the living room. “Also”—I pointed—“that wireless keyboard is for surfing through the TV’s cable Internet connection.”
“Prints?”
“Possibly.”
I went to the television. “The jumper told me the file wasn’t on the computer or the phone. All the DVDs and videocassettes were taken. So there might be . . .” The television was directed toward the chair. I angled the arm it was attached to over to the other side so I could access the back of it.
Oh yes.
“Right there.” I directed her attention to two USB input devices inserted into the data ports on the back of the unit. “One has the same insignia as the keyboard. That’s probably its wireless input. But the other one—”
“Is a flash drive.”
“It sure looks like it. We need to find out if there’s a file on it called ‘Aurora’s birthday.’ It might hold the key to figuring out who murdered Stewart, and why this guy tonight just killed himself. He warned me about the people who are behind this. Whoever they are, it sounds like they do not play nicely with others, so tell the computer forensics guys to be careful.”
On the way to the elevator I texted Christie Ellis, the woman I was seeing.
Earlier, I’d canceled dinner with her tonight, then later, canceled drinks afterward as well, all because of my work. I’d told her I would swing by her place on my way home, but it didn’t look like that was going to happen now either.
She texted back almost immediately that she
was still open to me coming by, just to let her know.
I replied that I would be in touch.
+++
By the time I arrived at the front of the building, nearly everyone in the crowd had their cell phones out and was filming the rather grisly scene. I wondered how many times it’d already been uploaded to YouTube or tweeted.
I drew out my creds and held them up as I approached the body. “FBI. Everybody stand back.”
The man had landed on his back and the posterior of his skull was crushed. One of his legs was bent profusely to the side. The end of a fractured bone punctured his pants leg.
I heard sirens.
NYPD.
Based on the extent of this man’s injuries, I didn’t think there was any chance that he was still alive, but perhaps for my sake, perhaps for the crowd’s, I gently placed two fingers on his throat to check for a pulse.
Nothing.
The woman who’d been closest to the jumper when he hit the sidewalk was sitting on the curb nearby. Blood, along with gray matter from the dead man’s brain, had splattered onto the hem of her skirt. She wasn’t shaking. Wasn’t crying. She just sat staring blankly across the street. Shock.
“Ma’am?” I said. “Are you injured?”
She didn’t move.
I knelt beside her. “Are you hurt, ma’am?”
This time she shook her head. “No.”
I visually assessed her but saw no injuries. “You’re going to be alright,” I said, though I wasn’t sure that was going to be the case, not after having this happen to her. A body crashing to the pavement within arm’s reach of you? That’s the stuff of nightmares. Not everybody would be able to shake off something that traumatic.
Rising, I returned to the body and inspected his pockets.
No phone. No wallet. No ID.
But there was a folded-up envelope labeled OPEN ONLY IN THE CASE OF MY DEATH.
Whether he’d been planning to take his life or afraid someone might take it from him, I didn’t know.
Using my knife as a letter opener, I cut along the edge of the envelope and removed the single sheet of paper inside.
Dear Billy,
I’m sorry it came to this, but it’s the only thing I know to do. Whatever you want to believe about me, whatever anyone says, you need to know that I never did the things she’s claiming I did. I’m sorry I let you down.
—Randy
Okay, a clue, but also another mystery—who was Billy?
At least the names in the note might help us identify the jumper.
In his pockets I found some loose change, a subway MetroCard, and a single key. Earlier, I’d seen the key to the apartment we’d just been in, and this one didn’t match it.
Well, we would run his prints and DNA. If he was in the system, we would identify him. At least we had a first name to work with. The rather crudely drawn tattoo of a shamrock on the back of his right hand might help if we could find a studio that had done it for someone named “Randy.”
I stood and eyed the crowd, took note of posture, stance, body language, but no one was acting in a suspicious or aggressive manner. They were still filming and now a number of them directed their phones at me.
Assistant Director DeYoung had told us not to instruct people to put their phones away when we’re at a scene, since it ended up manifesting resentment toward the Bureau, especially after the people invariably wouldn’t listen and would eventually post those videos of us telling them to turn off their phones anyway. “People will wonder, ‘What are they trying to hide?’” DeYoung had explained. “Or, ‘What don’t they want me to see?’”
The problem was getting worse year by year. It bothered me when people treated death like a spectator sport. From what I’d seen in the past, these videos would be watched by tens of thousands of people, especially if the media picked up any of them or, for whatever reason, they went viral. Then you could be talking about hundreds of thousands of views. Or more.
All to satisfy the macabre curiosity of the masses.
No, we really haven’t come all that far since the days of the Colosseum.
An NYPD cruiser arrived.
I explained who I was, briefed the officers, and mentioned that, based on the jumper’s comments to me, he was a person of interest for the homicide the night before.
One of the officers went to string up some police tape. The other said to me, “So you really think this is our doer from last night?”
Doer, perp, UNSUB, I’m not a fan of any of those terms. “It’s possible, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
He noted the shamrock tattoo. “That’s an Aryan Brotherhood symbol. Prison tats? An ex-con?”
“He might just be Irish. And I’m guessing he’s never been to prison.”
“Why’s that?”
“On the balcony he said to me, ‘You’re not sending me to prison,’ rather than ‘you’re not sending me back to prison.’ I’ve never known anyone who’s been locked up who would have phrased it like he did. You serve time, you don’t want to be sent back. It’s how you’d typically put it.”
“Good point.” He was looking at the makeshift bandage on my left forearm. “You alright?”
“I’m alright.”
I stared at the body.
I’m guessing that most people who take their own life don’t think about what has to happen afterward, about what their choice is going to require other people to do.
Someone will have to clean up the mess, replace the carpet, paint over the bloodstain, remove the empty bottle of pills from your rigid, clinging hand, or, in this case, wash off the sidewalk.
It was so tragic.
Cleaning up the dead is a messy business.
And there was no reason this man needed to die tonight.
An ambulance rolled to a stop near the edge of the police tape.
I directed one paramedic to assist the woman who was seated on the curb, the one who’d been so close to where the jumper impacted the ground.
The other EMT snipped off the sleeve of my shirt, cleaned the laceration on my arm, and tried to convince me that I needed stitches. I avoid those whenever possible since needles are part of the deal. I’ve never had an affinity for those things.
Facing a psychotic killer on the street, yeah, I’m good with that.
Facing a grinning nurse with a needle, not so much.
It took some convincing, but she finally gave in and agreed to just bandage it up.
While she worked on that, I dictated my incident report into my phone. The latest voice-recognition software was accurate enough to cut down almost by half the amount of time we spent on filling out paperwork, and you weren’t going to find me complaining about that.
In the morning I could review the report, proofread it, and then submit it to DeYoung before heading to the Field Office.
Eventually, another ambulance rolled in, loaded up the body, and left for the morgue at Presbyterian Central Hospital. One by one, the people filming things dispersed, busily posting, texting, and tweeting what had just happened.
After I was done with my dictation, I called Christie to tell her that I’d see her tomorrow, but she explained that she had chicken Parmesan waiting. “I’ll warm it up when you get here. Come on over, it’d be nice to see you.”
I’d missed dinner earlier and it was nearly ten thirty. “You’re sure it’s not too late?”
“I’m certain.”
“Alright, I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
After the Crime Scene Unit left with the USB drive and remote-control devices along with the items I’d found on the victim’s body, I took off for Christie’s place.
4
“Hey, you,” I said.
I stepped into her fourth-story apartment and closed the door behind me.
&nbs
p; Her gaze went immediately to the snipped-off shirtsleeve and my bandaged arm. “How many?”
“How many?”
“Stitches.”
“I just had the paramedic bandage it.”
“Is it serious?”
“No.”
“How did it happen?”
“A knife.” I gave her a kiss. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.”
She said nothing.
The two-bedroom, cramped, and ridiculously overpriced apartment had a typical New York City floor plan: a breakfast nook opened up to the living room, which led to a hallway past the single bathroom to a pair of bedrooms. That was it. Yet, as modest as this place was, her rent devoured nearly forty percent of her monthly salary. Space is definitely at a premium in a city of 8.5 million people.
In order to make ends meet, a lot of FBI agents live in New Jersey and commute ninety minutes each way just to get by.
With my joint work with the NYPD and the requirement to be on-site for so many cases, it was necessary for me to live in the city and have a vehicle—even though battling New York City traffic was not by any means my favorite pastime. Though the royalties from the two criminology books I’d written were relatively meager, they helped. Without them I wasn’t sure how I could afford to live here on what I currently made.
Christie preferred not using the breakfast counter, so she had a small table pushed up behind the couch on the edge of the living room.
Two candles flickered on it—one orchid, one lavender. By the amount of wax flow, I could tell they hadn’t been burning for long. Two dishes, two wineglasses, and her finest silverware waited on either side of them. Most people save their best dinnerware for special occasions. Not Christie. “You never know what’s coming your way,” she told me once. “This might be the most special day of your life and you just haven’t found that out yet. Why not celebrate proactively?”
Celebrating proactively.
Not a bad life philosophy.
A Tupperware container with chicken Parmesan sat beside the candles. “It got cold earlier,” she said. “I didn’t want to reheat it until you got here.”
